


VERDIGRIS

by stellarhierarchies



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alcoholism, Angst, Cherubim, Flower Crowns, Flowers, Fluff, Love Confessions, M/M, Making Love, Making Up, Poetry, Smut, Suicide Attempt, Sunsets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-16 14:28:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29333829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stellarhierarchies/pseuds/stellarhierarchies
Summary: 'he's got eyes of the darkest onyx, my little cherub.'in which wilbur is an artist, and schlatt is his muse.
Relationships: Jschlatt/Wilbur Soot
Comments: 19
Kudos: 80





	1. cherub

he slipped on a pair of shoes, black and white patterned, laces cutting circulation and hands bleeding from papercuts and sharp pens stabbing into alabaster skin; ignoring the screaming that was going on only a little above him. 

curses flew around the air, the space seeming to shrink and crush down on the man's head. 

he ran out the house with his phone in his hand. he frantically skimmed through his contacts, long white fingers slipping over letters and numbers. 

'please leave a message after the tone.' 

the man sighed and waited for the signal. _beep_.

bingo. 

"hey, j. it's me, wil. look, i know you're pissed at me right now but i need somewhere to stay. please call me back."

he shoved the device into his pocket, its cries becoming fainter and more discreet as he approached the main road. 

the highway was a loud, blaring mess of rubicund red lights and sleek grey blurs screeching past him; he barely felt the vibrations in his pocket while standing beside the whirling cold air left from cars dashing past in his wake, leaving his bloodied hands and arms cold and ague. 

the phone's metal left indents in his skin, sharp edges letting dried blood return fresh and crimson. 

with shaking hands, he hit accept. 

"hello?" he whispered. his voice was barely legible over the busy street-shops and roads he was so close to, in more ways than one. 

"wil, you fuckin' ass. where the fuck are you? what's happened?" his friend shouted. wilbur blinked, shaking away the thoughts rushing through his mind in unfathomable speeds. 

"i'm by the highway. by the big mcdonalds on king's road. near my house. it's-"

"yeah, yeah, i know where. give me a minute." there was a shuffling behind the screen, the sound of keys jangling, and a door slamming. the noise added to the calamity which wilbur had found himself in. 

"wait there."

the call ended. 

wilbur waited for a few minutes, ignoring as best he could the looks and murmurs he was attracting from the people passing by. 

one man stood and stared at him for an uncomfortably long time, awkwardly averting his eyes when wilbur turned to look back with a glare. 

"what?" he said hotly. more of a statment than a question. like, what's the problem here, or why's it so weird that i'm standing here. ignoring the blood and the clear underdressing, there was nothing wrong. not to them, anyway. 

why can't people leave him alone?

the man frowned and walked away, only looking back at the shivering mess once. 

wilbur felt a surge of warmth course through his shoulder. he turned around to see schlatt's hand there, and he couldn't help but smile. 

when he looked up, however, schlatt wasn't smiling back. his brows were creased, frustrated. he motioned towards a beat-up red sandero. 

"get in."

wilbur meekly obliged, nearly hitting his head due to his height. he heard his friend hold back a snicker. 

the car was familiar. he'd been in it so many times before. getting high, getting drunk. getting fucked. maybe too familiar. 

the seats were soft, still. for an ancient car, that is. he ignored the strange look schlatt gave him and opened the door. 

he collapsed in shotgun, head in hands, and waited for the inevitable barraging cascades of questions he was about to get thrown his way. 

suprisingly, they didn't come straight away. there was a good 5 minutes of driving along the freeway when schlatt spoke up. 

"why'd you drag me out here then, wil?" 

his voice had tightened a little; was he anxious? worried?

"parents, man. you know how it is."

schlatt frowned. "no, no i fucking don't, wil. don't lump me in your shit." wilbur snickered, reaching to pat his friend on the shoulder. 

"you're bleeding." he pointedly pushed his head in the direction of wilbur's hands, which were, indeed, bleeding. it had left a mark on schlatt's jumper. baby blue, as always. 

"i'll sort it out later." 

"yeah, you fuckin' better. look, if you need somewhere to stay, just be upfront 'bout it. don't hit me with all this fake shit." 

wilbur nodded slowly. "alright, then, princess," he smirked, noting schlatt's growing blush and also the grimace, "i need a place to stay." 


	2. love bit me, hard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'it's not personal, you're just attractive'.

the rest of the journey home was agonisingly slow. it was hard to ignore schlatt's unbroken glare, and it was even worse that his eyes were soft. 

"hey, keep your eyes on the goddamn road. i don't wanna crash."

schlatt grinned meekly and turned back to the wheel. silence, silence, silence. 

wilbur propped his head up against the window, looking out at the dark, grim, rain-speckled view. red lights from cars in front and behind them shone in the wing-mirrors and growing alongside glass panes. 

eventually, schlatt's car pulled into a driveway off a side road, where he pulled out the keys and awkwardly stepped out, slamming the door behind him. wilbur waited for a while before following suit. 

the rain had become a downpour, lashing at his skin with feverous strength. he felt a hand on his arm again, and his friend pulled him into the sheltered porch, their bodies soaked and pressed firmly together. 

their faces almost touched; wilbur shuffled in his friend's arms, the cold easing away into something akin to warmth. he could hear schlatt breathing, soft and broken. his eyes stared into wilbur's, a pleasant thing of red and brown. 

there were no words. schlatt let go of the brunet's arm, turning to face away from him, hair dripping into his face as he fumbled with the keys to open the door. 

he looks beautiful, wilbur thinks.

the door opens, and wilbur steps inside, welcoming the heat of the radiator by the doorway. he watches as schlatt grumpily throws off his shoes, ripping his jumper off angrily. he stands in a wet shirt, almost see-through now. he walks to the kitchen at the end of the hallway. wilbur has to force himself not to look. 

so instead he sits on the stairs, still, unfortunately, soaked to the bone. he pulls his own shirt off, maybe not helping, but it feels better to warm naked skin. he slips off his shoes, politely placing them under the heater to dry.

then the goatman walks back to the stairway, one hand clutching something that smells calm and sweet; it's tea. he puts it next to wilbur, eyes baring that same soft look again. the brunet notices that he has a roll of a bandage in his other hand. 

wilbur extends his hand. it stings when schlatt washes it, and he notices, slowing down the movements. he tries to smile at schlatt, but it ends up looking like a grimace. 

this time schlatt flinches, looking at wilbur worriedly, not stopping the ministrations on wilbur's palm. "s'fine, keep going." 

schlatt obliges. 

once the wound is clean, he carefully wraps the bandage around his hand, then helping wilbur hold up the mug of tea. he sits closely beside wil, with the brunet almost on his lap. he buries his face into the curls on the back of wilbur's head, subconsciously wrapping his arms around wilbur's exposed waist.

they stay like that for a while, at least until wilbur finishes his drink. 

wilbur falls asleep in schlatt's embrace; it reminds him of before. it was comforting. warm. and most of all, it was welcoming. 

schlatt woke with a start, letting go of his grip on his friend's waist. his gaze fell on the sleeping face, and with a careful move he picked him up, bridal style, and carried him to the sofa. 

he lay him down softly, reaching for his face. curls had fallen on, which he lightly brushed aside, fingers lingering on his cheek for a while too long.

his face was porcelain, pale; like the slightest rough touch could shatter the gentile features. his lips were bitten and red, cracked and almost bloodied. schlatt drew his thumb over, moving closer from where he knelt on the floor. 

then he shook himself off, cursing himself for his perverted mind. it was long ago, he tries to tell himself. it isn't right, he silently yells. 

but he can't help it. not when he's lying down so prettily for him. schlatt walks away before he makes a fool of himself. he mustn't fall again.

his realisations make him aware of how soaked his shirt is, and he pulls it over his shoulders, abandoning it on the floor of the living room. he hears wilbur stir from his slumber, and decides to ignore it, finishing tasks in the house shirtless. 

he sits down after a while on a chair in the kitchen; it's old, rickety, and makes him feel like he'll fall off: but nothing feels stable to him right now. it all feels fake, a disillusioned sense of passion. he feels empty. 

he lets the waves of warmth that fill his body from head to toe after he takes his first drink of alcohol in a year. it feels so much better than he remembered. it feels like love. he'll scorn himself later, for sure, but for now he may as well forget everything for the sake of a drink. 

he passes out drunk on the chair. 

and then he wakes. it's one of those moments in which you feel like you've been asleep for no longer than a minute; maybe even less. he feels warm hands on his chest, a scared murmur, and he remembers himself. it's wilbur's warm touch, it's wilbur's concerned voice. he jolts upright. 

"what the fuck, schlatt?" he hears.

it's not new. he blinks and sees his friend's glossy eyes, tainting the face of china. in a blur, they're gone; but now he feels wet on his chest. his skin feels the tears, he feels wilbur's pain. he cries, too. they cry about everything. 

somehow his hands find their way into wilbur's soft locks, and suddenly all the pent up anger is let out in a furious flurry of kisses. purple breaks wil's neck as schlatt rests his head back into his neck. he can feel his legs wrap around his waist, pulling him downwards softly. 

then it's all a blur. he feels weak and naked under wilbur's touch, so powerful, but so gentle. passion blocks any comprehensive thoughts from his mind, clouding the screams calling to his that he isn't worth it, that wilbur still doesn't care;

he shuts them out for a night of pure pleasure, raw and animalistic. 

when he wakes the next morning, wilbur is gone. it shouldn't upset nor surprise him, and it doesn't. he only feels empty. he shouldn't miss him already, but he does. he's only left empty, and worried. 

where's he gone to now? he can't help but think. even after all this time, he still cares.

wilbur stole schlatt's car. 

maybe it was a stupid choice. he can't stop feeling bad about last night. something evil and black was eating him up, from the inside out. starting from his heart, into his brain, numbing nerves in his legs and crushing his ribs. 

schlatt had cared, and it hurt, so bad, because he'd been the only one who had. he knew they had only found solace in each other, and he had broken that bond, by being his parents himself. lethal, unloving? toxic. deadly. a stupid, cheating curse. 

and schlatt hadn't batted an eye. ignorance is bliss, he remembers. that makes him smile. maybe it is, to an extent. at least until you leave your lover in the dark. abandon them. then the cracks in the happy-go-lucky facade start to show, like a glass mirror, until it gets to hard to ignore. you can't see your reflection anymore. 

wilbur brings the car to an abrupt stop. he's made it to the cliff. their first date, a picnic, on a bench. he looks around. he recalls it having a vague obituary in gold plating on it. 

he finds it fast. it's only a few yards from the car. 

_"schlatttttt-"_

_he's holding a tacky yellow jumper in the air. "come fight me for it, loverboy!"_

_he groans, before standing and taking a running leap and jumping on the hybrid. he sits on top of schlatt for a moment, breathless._

_"caught you," he whispers. he giggles._

_his lover grins back, before lifting him up and taking him back to the car, whispering sweet nothings into wil's ear._

_after that, it's all clashing lips, red, blue and pink, skin and sweat. and it's beautiful._

_afterwards, they drink. the brunet finds a gun in the boot, unloaded. "that's my glock, wil, don't fuckin' touch it," schlatt warns, steering him away from the weapon._

wilbur breaks from his trance. the sun's setting again, and he can't help crying. he wipes the tears away with his bandaged hand.

the sun fades into tangerine orange, glowing dimly against the blackening sky. stars begin to shine. 

wilbur walks back towards the car, to the boot. there's a red case, and in it, is the gun. he doesn't bother to check if it's loaded. he doesn't write a note, either; he knows that when his hands meet paper, everything goes to shit. 

no, he knows that schlatt will know why he's gone. he smiles, thinking of his lover, his _cherub_ , his dark _onyx_ eyes and fair skin, soft hair and smooth horns.

then he pulls the trigger. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘺, 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘪𝘦 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯! 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵'𝘴 𝘶𝘱! 𝘩𝘺𝘥𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘵𝘩𝘺. 𝘪𝘭𝘺.
> 
> 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 3 𝘮𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦? 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘢 𝘣𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘢 𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘵/𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘺 𝘱𝘰𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘤 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘪 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘰𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘶𝘣 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥... 𝘪𝘥𝘬? 𝘪 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘢 𝘵𝘳𝘺 𝘮𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭 𝘴𝘮𝘶𝘵 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯, 𝘴𝘰 𝘫𝘢!
> 
> 𝘱𝘭𝘰𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘴 𝘥𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘷𝘢𝘨𝘶𝘦, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘪 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘨𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘭𝘰𝘵. 𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯'𝘵, 𝘪'𝘭𝘭 𝘴𝘢𝘺 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯 𝘪𝘯 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴. 𝘪 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘥𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵: 𝘪 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘳𝘺𝘯𝘢 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘧𝘧𝘴! 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘥𝘪𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘶𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘺, 𝘢𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘴𝘦𝘦!
> 
> 𝘢𝘭𝘴𝘰! 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘢 𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘦𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘳. 𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘴!


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

it wasn't hard for schlatt to figure out what had happened. 

he had almost known straight away; as soon as the car was gone, the car with the gun, the car with wilbur, the car with the suicide weapon. he had known and he hadn't stopped him. 

he found him on their bench, sprawled across it like a beautiful art reference, like a statue or painting by michelangelo or botticelli.

and he wept. 

he cried for wil, for his family, for himself. he had known wilbur was troubled, but enough to attempt his own death? 

he gingerly plucked the gun from the soft hand, bracing himself to check the holster. 

empty. 

he gave a sigh of relief. he didn't equip his guns with ammunition, knowing that if he got pulled over he could easily be arrested. he looked back at wilbur's frail body, limp on soft wood. 

he must have passed out. 

he tries and fails to pull the body off the bench. it doesn't look all too good; a still man next to one crying, a gun in the latter's hand. that would be enough to garner attention, luckily, nobody's here. he pulls the weapon out of his hand and shoves it into his hoodie's pocket.

he can barely tell if it's night or day. he only sees wilbur's cold face. he cannot stop the tears. 

maybe it's because all schlatt needed to do for him to die was forget to unload the gun. to be careless enough to leave bullets in his car. 

he takes a warm hand in his own, gripping onto it tightly. he bites his lip and doesn't try to stop crying. 

he'll take him home soon. 

as it turns out, soon means five minutes later. schlatt's body feels weak from shock, but he persuades himself to pick up the listless body and slump him in shotgun. he hears the seat creak and he flinches when he sees wilbur's chest rise and fall so incredibly lightly.

he wants to talk to him while he's out of it, but the rest of him knows they need to sort themselves out. 

the drive back is quiet. schlatt finally gets what deja vu is, and slams the pedal harder. it feels like sitting next to a corpse. 

he gets home fast, turning into the drive and lifting wilbur out of the car, bridal style. he feels him stir slightly, and he tries not to smile. 

he carefully pulls out his keys and unlocks to door with only one hand free. then he kicks the door open with his shoe, walking around the stairway and into the living-room, trying to drop the taller man on the sofa. 

his hair was in his eyes, soft curls covering impossibly softer browns. he brushed them out of the way feebly, tears threatening to fall again, so he pulled a blanket over his unconscious (friend, lover?)'s body, and walks back out to the car, spotting the fallen glock on the diver's seat. it must have slipped out when he left the car.

he wants to smash it to pieces, but the risk it carries stops him from grabbing a mallet and crushing it to bits. 

so he walks back into his house, finding a shovel by the back door, propped against the pale wall. 

he picks a spot in the garden that's been overshadowed by a large shed next door, from over the fence. 

and he starts his dig. 

maybe it's a stupid idea. he could easily just get rid of the bullets, keeping him and wilbur both safe while having an emergency weapon. 

but something in him forces him to think of what could happen if all he did was hide it. wilbur would find it, find bullets, try again and again until he tried something else even worse. 

mud flies past him, some searing onto his face. his hands are calloused beyond belief, skin tearing and straining under the force of his pushes into the cold earth. he can only hope wilbur doesn't wake up before he finishes. he wants to bury this thing more than six feet under. he wishes he could push it to the earth's core, let it burn and twist and melt.

the hole is soon large enough to slot the gun in, and he drops it in like it's a poisonous thing that could burn him if he held it for long enough. 

shovelling the dirt back into the ground was a lot faster than digging it up. schlatt wiped his brow and set the shovel down against the tall picket fence. he sat, exhausted on the ground next to him and gave a sigh of relief. 

he rubbed his face, ignoring the dirt that came from his palm to his hand, and he stared at the disturbed ground before turning his back and going into his house. 

wilbur woke to the sound of a kettle brewing. 

was this heaven? he felt warm; some thick blanket covered his body and kept him warm. he didn't feel like moving. his arms felt heavy and weak. 

then he started to wonder if this actually _was_ heaven; he could feel, think, breathe; 

and then again, wherever he was, the place was far from an idyllic paradise. he could smell cloth, washing-up liquid, coffee, whiskey, the ugly stench of cigar tips and smoke. it all fit one particular person, and he wasn't in sight. 

"schlatt?" he whispered. no response. he pulled his hand over the blanket and saw dried blood. he nearly screeched aloud, but held his voice back. 

then he heard the sound of shoes hitting the floor, and the soft patter of socks walking towards where he was. there was a guttural cry and he felt large, warm arms hug him as tight as they could without crushing his ribs. 

"schlatt?" he whispered again.

he didn't respond, but wilbur felt tears stain his shoulder. 

"you're so-" schlatt's voice shook. "-you're so fucking stupid, wilbur!" he cried, before bursting into tears again, burying his head in wilbur's neck.

schlatt may have over-reacted. 

he can't help it; he loves wilbur, he knows that now. he needs to say it, and it comes out all wrong and garbled. he cries into wilbur's shoulder for ages before wilbur shushes him, whispering to him. the brunet pulls schlatt onto him, so he lies next to him. he pulls the blanket over schlatt. 

schlatt grips onto him in a fury. he completely buries himself into wilbur's chest, ignoring the taller's stutters. wilbur's hands make their way into his hair, slowly, and he kisses schlatt's head and holds him gently with his hand. 

he doesn't talk for a while. 

when he does, it's quiet and barely distinguishable from schlatt's sniffles. 

"schlatt..." wilbur starts, but the bronze-haired man cuts him off. 

"why, will? why?" he says, and it's so slight that wilbur can only just hear him. it's always been strange, seeing schlatt weak and soft. schlatt lifts his head, and wilbur sees glossy eyes. 

"i don't know," wilbur admits, and before schlatt can speak, he kisses him. maybe it wasn't the right thing to do, but schlatt soaks it up nonetheless, slipping into a gentle state of euphoria. 

the kiss is painfully gentle; their lips barely touch, it's chaste. wilbur cups schlatt's head and pulls him ontop of himself, ignoring the ringing in his head and the dried blood on his arms. 

schlatt straddles him and shuffles back to lying down on him; heartbeats intertwining. schlatt's breathing goes heavier, and wilbur moves back to rest his head. 

"what's wrong now, princess?" he asks, gently moving the blanket over schlatt's back. he notices dirt in his nails, but he ignores it and looks back at schlatt.

"i should be mad at you," schlatt answers. "i shouldn't be doing this. this is fucked up, will. i can't keep-" his voice tightens, and he knows he can't start crying again. he breathes in and holds wilbur's hand, sitting back up, legs either side of wilbur still. "-we can't keep doing this. i'm in or i'm out."

wilbur understands. he loves schlatt. he knows he does. all he needs to do is say it.

"i think i love you, schlatt." he mumbles, his own eyes growing teary. "no, no, fuck that, i- i do love you. you're the only reason i'm not dead, i swear to god. i love you." he says it again and again, like it would strengthen the meaning. he waits for schlatt's answer with baited breath.

schlatt's voice come out garbled, like he can't quite say it aloud- until he does. his tail goes from limp to playful in seconds. "i love you too, wilbur!" he yells, louder than even he expected. his face is red and he jumps on wilbur, shoving his head into his chest to hide the blush.

wilbur holds the back of his head closer to him and smiles.

they talk for a while, mumbling sweetness to each other and letting feelings long cooped up out. they fall asleep together on the sofa, limbs entangled and faces close. and they dream about each other that night.

maybe they can make this work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 𝘟𝘋 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘶𝘥𝘥𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘴 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦...... 𝘪 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘴𝘮𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘣𝘩
> 
> 𝘢𝘭𝘴𝘰, 𝘪𝘧 𝘪 𝘥𝘰, 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘢 𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘭 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘶𝘴? 𝘢𝘬𝘢, 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘵𝘰𝘱/𝘣𝘰𝘵𝘵𝘰𝘮? 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘬𝘴 𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵, 𝘪 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 <3

**Author's Note:**

> wattpad : stellarhierarchies


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